Monday, May 26, 2014

Wounded Labyrinths of Time

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

On dry leaves
stretched out on the pine
twin song birds
brush by the May Pole
decked out in forest finery
clearing along the woods
by the warmth of branches
against the harmless dawn
under a rain's resonance
between lemon trees
as if their fast-beaten wings
summon the resinous ocean
of grief of the last season
by first light's string of notes
their sea voices by port call
a local color artist
named Dmitri
is taking photographs
of sailors in white
on their maiden
voyage from Siberia
visiting us for the first time
in the newborn air
happy to have a reunion
with his Russian brothers
now on leave with good nature
while I rest my laurels
on a native American blanket
by my sleep's affection
with only a pack
of cards to play solitaire
through floral brush fire
imagining Spanish shadows
will emerge from a plant
resembling a Mexican crucifix
to astonish the mystics
in antiquity then vanish,
now reading a line
of Baudelaire in French,
then trying to compose
his lifelong BZ jazz symphony
called "Songbird"
in twelve-toned riffs
as he laughs at the geese
by the iris and tulips
contemplating hills of ivy
stretching to the Urals.


—B.Z. Niditch

Waiting for angels' wings
people await news of life
by TV crews this sad May
while in San Diego
as the phoenix from ashes
from trees by the hills
are washed down by planes
my mind colors
its mutilated world
on the lost houses
of so many souls
our life
knowing sorrow
with exiled prayers
in expectation
of the elliptical tomorrow
of better days.

—Photo by Katy Brown

—B.Z. Niditch

Andy Warhol hides
by ugly light bulbs
making his underground films
in specked future marquees
holding on to reality
under shrapnel
of watching stalkers
in creepy dress
wanting to hurt him
by uninformed screened
it was always
a four-letter word uttered
as if from Mercury's feet
in the darkest hall
watching mustaches
from paparazzi night owls
by sidewalk's crazy birds
who want to take a shot
at a celebrity genius
on earth's fifteen minutes
of fame in the city press
with no halos for the night
cries of "Andy, Andy"
spilling out on the streets.


—B.Z. Niditch

After the ghost of Poe
emerges for our memories'
gain, we watch him
in the corner
of a long room of hallways
hiding by stalking lilacs
among webs and spiders
working on his poems
by rows of clipped wings
from ravens' edge
lost as harmonious clouds
by knowing how language
like music by a metronome
is always solitary
how slow a clock
of nights
moves diminished chords
from enigmatic hours.

 Red-Hot Poker
—Photo by Katy Brown

—B.Z. Niditch

Rooted in stillness
drawing the wings of a dove
in his chiseled hands
all night suspended
under sated skies
between tongue and chair
animated by wounded
labyrinths of time
in dead silence
working on sculpture
along large ebony shade
returning names
for places
hiding in blue smoke
in a century's absence
still alive
crumbling the language
of stone.


—B.Z. Niditch

So in discos
at the doors, orchids flow
by birds of Capistrano,
black roses appear
and here is Walt Whitman
somewhere behind the drapes
moves his lips to the beat
and Garcia Lorca
more open to the wings
of angels
asks to dance with Garbo
more beautiful than her words
in the film Camille,
there is a kind girl holding out
from her fingers
my heavy sweet carnations
made for the prom
who touches my hand,
so in discos
we poets dream
on pink-soled hours
sad and good
awaiting morning.


Today's LittleNip:

Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail.

—Theodore Dreiser



Asian Pears
—Photo by Katy Brown